


Call the Ships to Port

by Cinis



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, bridget is a dashing privateer captain, franky is a mermaid, mermaid au, shipping ensues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinis/pseuds/Cinis
Summary: Mermaids see different shapes in the stars than humans.Franky points them out to Bridget and teaches her their names as Bridget traces fingertips over the blue-green lines decorating Franky’s skin.





	Call the Ships to Port

**Author's Note:**

  * For [generalantiope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalantiope/gifts).



> happy extremely belated half birthday to the generalantiope. maybe i should just call this an early birthday present instead.

Even in the early morning, the sun out on the open sea is brutal.

Standing by herself near the prow of her ship, scanning the horizon, Bridget pushes a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and wipes her brow with the back of her hand. Her broad captain’s hat shields her from the sun somewhat, but not nearly enough. Sticking to her skin, even her loose shirt feels like too much clothing for the heat of the coming day.

High above, the sails of the _Labrys_ hang slack as the ship sits near dead still water. Under Bridget’s feet, the deck is steady, more like land than a vessel afloat at sea.

Hm.

There’s hardly a cloud in the sky, but the air feels thick and electric.

Bridget turns away from horizon, frowning. After some two decades sailing, she’s learned to trust her gut. A storm is coming.

Most of the crew are below deck, hiding from the sun. Bridget doesn’t much care for the cramped and dank bowels of ships, not when she can stand out in the open surrounded on all sides by the sea, but, especially on scorching days like this, many prefer the dark. Among the few who have come up into the morning air, Bridget seeks out her first mate.

Vera turns as Bridget approaches.

“Vera,” Bridget starts.

“Storm?” Vera asks. She too is an old hand at this work. Standing by the port rail her hands are clasped behind her back and, unlike Bridget, she’s wearing a tarred canvas jacket over her shirt despite the growing heat of the day. Like many of the _Labrys’_ crew, Bridget included, Vera served in the Royal Navy during the war. Even after a half-decade sailing as a privateer, she hasn’t shaken the stiff formality of their last life. Bridget suspects Vera rather likes it.

“Storm,” Bridget says, confirming.

Vera looks up towards the limp canvas about them. “Reduce sail?”

“Reduce sail,” Bridget echoes with a wry grin. “You’re a mind reader.”

Vera sort of chuffs. It’s the closest she ever comes to laughing. “Or you’ve gotten predictable,” she says.

“Me?” Bridget asks, feigning astonishment. She’s a creature of habit and the entire crew knows it. She loves red wine, women, and the sea. Of those things, she loves the sea most of all. She loves salt and sun and the rhythm of waves. When the war was over and done, French and Spaniards both having been soundly routed, there was never any question in Bridget’s mind what she’d do next.

“You,” Vera confirms.

Bridget, gesturing dismissively, “Never.”

To this, Vera cocks an eyebrow. “Of course, Captain Westfall.”

[] [] []

All through the day, the storm fails to come and the winds stay absent. Caught in the doldrum, others amble about aimlessly on deck and occasionally check fishing lines. Bridget, standing apart, leans against the bulwark rail at prow, watching the horizon and waiting for the sea.

[] [] []

Three days, all with the sense of tempest expectant, and the _Labrys_ continues to sit motionless. She’s a brigantine, an oarless two-masted ship. Without wind and tide, she’s at the mercy of whatever god rules the deeps.

The crew pass time playing cards and dice and sleeping. They set out from port weeks ago chasing a tip as to the whereabouts of one of the pirate queen Ferguson’s lieutenants, but that mission now seems lost to the still sea.

To Bridget, pacing the deck, frowning, the unease of stillness on the sea feels like something is watching them.

It is not a comfortable feeling.

[] [] []

On the the sixth night of nothing, Bridget hears it.

The sun has gone down and she’s lying in her bunk in her quarters, still awake with a restless energy.

The song that she hears is a summons. It hooks into her and _pulls_.

It’s a song without words.

It’s a song that fills Bridget’s ears and digs its way into her chest to lodge within her heart. It’s the slow tide and it’s the winter storm and it’s the summer calm, all tinged with salt and driven by a steady wind. It’s brine spray and blue depths. It’s the world past the horizon.

It’s a beautiful, aching, longing that makes Bridget’s knees shake beneath her as she rolls from her bed, pulls on a shirt, and stumbles out onto the deck and towards the ship’s rail. She grasps at the wood, struggling for some sense of reality.

She knows in her bones—

The song is the call of the sea.

She’s heard it her entire life.

But sung like this?

“Captain? Something wrong?”

Startled from her trance, Bridget jumps slightly and spins, turning to Linda. Stationed as night lookout, she’s the only other soul out on deck. She’s carrying a small lantern and Bridget should have noticed her approach.

“Mm, no,” Bridget replies, finding composure. She glances back out to the desolate sea. The singing has gone. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You and me both,” Linda grumbles. If she caught Bridget’s disorientation, she’s refraining from comment. She’s very good at looking the other way. “Fancy a game of cards?”

Bridget lets out a small laugh, shaking her head clear of whatever drew her out of her quarters. She knows better than to gamble with Linda. Nevertheless—“Sure.”

[] [] []

The seventh night comes and Bridget lies on her back in her bed staring at the dark wood ceiling above her, listening to the _singing_.

When sun comes, the song ends, but even so Bridget feels the yearning memory of it in her soul.

While her crew amble about the ship without purpose, she naps fitfully in her quarters.

The few times she’s out on deck, she’s on edge. Jumpy. Out of the corner of her eye she sees—

When she turns, she knows she saw only the sea, a smooth expanse in the unnatural calm.

[] [] []

The eighth night, Bridget relieves Linda of night watch and takes it for herself.

On the deck of the _Labrys_ , beneath the clear dark, Bridget is alone.

But she’s not.

The _song_ —

Bridget paces to the prow. The soft sound of her bare feet against the wood deck joins the gentle creaking of a ship at sea. The faintest of breezes catches her, tugging at her stiff leather hat and the lapels of her dark jacket. In her ears, it mingles with the singing, smoothly complementing the notes of ocean.

There’s a bit of thick rope fastened to the rail near her. She takes the rope, damp from the spray of the waves, and wraps it around her palm, once, twice and then grips it tightly.

It’s a calm night. On the horizon she sees nothing but level sea.

Bridget squeezes her eyes shut as she fills her lungs with salty air, then opens her eyes once more. She’s been at sea some twenty years and those years have made her steady. Her skin is dark from the sun and her wiry body is strong from toil.

So why is she so afraid?

Because it’s always wise to fear the sea.

[] [] []

The night after—

The night is dark but the sky is clear, and so the bright stars and the white moon light up the whole of the ship and the sea. The horizon is empty.

Keeping watch and listening to the singing, Bridget hears a soft splash at starboard and at first she mistakes it for the mundane lapping of the waters against the hull of the ship. Both sounds are insignificant in comparison to the song. But then she hears it again and now she’s sure that it’s not in rhythm with the tide.

It’s probably a clump of seaweed or driftwood.

In all her senses, the song is loud—so loud that she can’t tell if it’s getting louder.

Against her better lights, she walks to the starboard side and peers down towards the depths.

She arrives in time to see something substantial vanish beneath the waves. It could have been a large fish. She wants it to have been a fish but she knows it wasn’t a fish.

Bridget wraps her hands around the edge of the bulwark, the part of the hull that rises up to protect the deck from strong waves, and takes a deep breath to steel herself. She’s being _toyed with_ and she doesn’t like it. But you can’t fight the ocean. Even children understand as much and Bridget, weathered by a multitude of life’s storms, isn’t a child. “I know you’re there,” she calls out to the empty waters.

Her words are swallowed by the warm air and steady sea, sharp disturbances smoothed away in the vastness. She is, after all, talking to no one.

Even so, clutching the bulwark rail, Bridget’s knuckles are pale. She’s holding tight like her life depends on it.

In her head the singing is getting louder and in her chest the ache is growing ever more immeasurable.

She holds tighter.

When the mermaid reveals itself, it does so without excessive fanfare—though Bridget would be pressed to say what exactly she was expecting. One moment she’s looking out to the empty moonlit sea and the next there’s a—

There is no question in Bridget’s mind that this mermaid is a _she_ and not an _it_.

A pale face looks up at Bridget from the water. The mermaid has dark hair that falls to her shoulders, a delicate neck, and an uncovered bosom. Patterns on skin that remind Bridget of tattoos wind around two skinny—but clearly very toned—arms and over one breast; Bridget very nearly tips over the edge of the ship, straining to better see the woman in the water.

“You’re not a bloke,” the mermaid says, pensive behind a frown and the slight bite in her tone.

And with that the singing is gone and Bridget is pushing herself back because she was very near to tumbling overboard. Her breath is quick and her heart is pounding. Beautiful women aren’t worth her life—and she’d do well to remember that now. Cautiously, “Is that a problem?”

Bridget’s steadied herself now, but she continues to grip the bulwark for all she’s worth. She understands, now, why her ship has been stalled for so long on the edge of storm.

The mermaid produces an exasperated noise. Then, “I was gonna wreck your ship and drown you all, but you’re too fetching for that. What’m I gonna do now?” Even as she suggests the blackness of the depths, her voice is light, lyrical. Beguiling.

When Bridget replies, she speaks carefully. “You could let us go,” she ventures.

The mermaid lets out a short chuckle. “Why would I do that? What’ll you give me?” Briefly, she dives and vanishes beneath the waves again and in that brief moment Bridget thinks— _that was the wrong thing to say and that’s it, it’s all over, she’s going to kill us now_. But then the mermaid reemerges, water trickling down her face, eyes sparkling. She cocks an eyebrow as if to say, ‘ _Well?_ ’

Bridget clears her throat. “I don’t know,” she says. “What do mermaids usually want?”

The mermaid grins, shark-like, almost suggesting too many teeth. “Well that’s a dangerous question.” Her tongue darts out for a moment and swipes her upper lip. “Are you a dangerous person?”

Bridget’s breath catches.

In the water, the mermaid laughs, musical, and in her laughter is the memory of her song. It sends a shiver down Bridget’s spine. “Souls, mostly.” She makes her pronouncement with an irreverent carelessness. “The sea gets lonely.”

Bridget swallows. Her throat is dry. “Mostly?”

“Mostly,” the mermaid repeats. Her eyes rake over Bridget’s form, predatory.

Beautiful the mermaid may be, but Bridget dislikes feeling so much like _prey_. She doesn’t appreciate the reminder that she and her ship are at this creature’s mercy. She meets the mermaid’s eyes. “May I have the honor of your name?” she asks.

“Franky,” the mermaid says. “What’s yours?”

“Bridget Westfall, Captain of the _Labrys_ in His Majesty’s service by letter of marque.”

Franky rolls her eyes. “Okay, Gidget.”

Did the mermaid mishear? Water in her ears? “Bridget,” Bridget corrects.

“Nah,” is all Franky has to say to that. She dips under the surface of the sea again, then returns. “What brings you this way, Gidget?”

“Pirate hunting on behalf of the Crown,” Bridget answers without hesitation. “And you?”

“I’m here talking to a very good-looking sailor,” Franky says. “Fancy a swim?”

Swim with a mermaid?

Swimming with a mermaid, even one as charming as Franky—

Charming?

Yes—Franky is quite charming.

That doesn’t make her any less dangerous.

Shaking her head slightly and starting to smile, “I’m good-looking, am I?” Bridget asks.

“Dapper,” Franky says. A lopsided grin stretches across her face. “Sharp dresser.”

“Not that you’d know much about clothes,” Bridget replies. To make her point, she lets her eyes drift away from Franky’s face. Or maybe she’s not doing it to make a point. Maybe she’s just appreciating the view. Maybe she meant to make a point and became distracted along the way. It’s hard to say.

Franky laughs. In the water, she shifts, rising up and revealing more of herself until the place where her human torso becomes a shimmering tail is level with the surface of the sea. “Don’t need ‘em,” Franky says. “I’m majestic.”

She really is.

All across her abdomen are more of the winding marks that Bridget thought looked like tattoos. They’re shaped in a form reminiscent of roses, but replete with a sense of the deep. They’re delicate and strong all at once and Bridget is possessed by an urge to reach out and run her fingers along them, know them by touch as well as by sight.

“Like what you see?”

It’s the sound of Franky’s voice that snaps Bridget out of her trance.

_And lead us not into temptation—_

Under her feet, the gentle rocking of her ship’s deck is solid. It’s not earth, but it grounds her nevertheless. She blinks and looks away. When she looks back to Franky, she’s careful to look only at the mermaid’s face. Safer that way, she thinks.

“You’re a flirt,” Bridget says.

Franky smirks. “Is that a bad thing?”

Bridget smirks back. “It’s a good look on you.”

Franky pushes herself up taller above the waves, then performs a watery backwards somersault, displaying the full length of her tail for a moment before twisting back up to the surface. Her tail is a darkly purple-blue indigo. Her pale skin glistens in the moonlight. “Here’s my offer,” she says. “I like your hat. Give me your hat and I’ll let your crew and your ship alone. Might even give you a hand back to your port if I’m feeling generous.”

Bridget lifts an eyebrow. “My crew and my ship?” she asks. “And what about me?”

There’s a glimmer in Franky’s eyes and the predatory shadow has returned to her smile. “Take it or leave it,” she says.

Bridget hesitates, but only for a moment. She won’t get better terms and whatever consequences may follow—come what may. She raises a hand, removes her leather hat from her head and tosses it down to Franky in the water.

Franky catches the hat before it touches the sea and dons it, slightly askew.

It suits her.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Gidget,” Franky says.

“You wear it better than I did anyway,” Bridget responds.

Franky shakes her head, grin spreading slowly from her lips to her eyes. There’s mischief in her voice. “I don’t know about that.”

“Perhaps we can agree to disagree then,” says Bridget. “I think you’ll find I’m quite stubborn.”

This draws another laugh from Franky. She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “And I think you’ll find I’m quite persuasive.”

“Will I now?” Bridget asks. It’s less of a question, more of a challenge, even though Bridget doesn’t doubt that Franky is correct. Talking to Franky is easy in a way that invites Bridget to let her guard down.

“Give me time,” Franky replies with a wink.

Bridget shakes her head at Franky’s antics. “And how long will you need?”

“Rugged sea captain like you?” Franky starts. “I might be a while. But you’ll see.” She flashes another grin and then, in an instant, she’s vanished beneath the surface of the dark sea.

For a while Bridget stays at the bulwark, listening to the quiet lapping of the waves and watching the water where Franky disappeared but the singing doesn’t return and neither does the singer.

Alone on the deck of the _Labrys_ , Bridget allows her shoulders to slump. She sets her head in her hands. What is she doing? What bargain has she assented to?

Everyone who sails out beyond sight of land knows that the sea is a dangerous mistress, unpredictable and, at times, cruel.

There are many tales of mermaids.

They are beautiful, nigh irresistible, and just as fickle as the ancient goddess who birthed them.

All their tales end the same way.

They are, after all, the sea.

[] [] []

The next day, a strong wind starts up in the early hours of dawn.

Bridget orders for sails and then they’re on their way.

They sail through the day and into the evening, making excellent speed, and Bridget takes a nightwatch at the helm, guiding them through the starlit dark.

Night comes and goes.

No singing.

No mermaids.

No Franky.

[] [] []

Even with the wind, it takes three days to make their way back to the naval station. When they sail into the protected cove of the port, the sky is clear and the sun is strong. Human noises of dockwork fill the air. In clarity and in light the strangeness of the night sea seems like an insubstantial memory of fog, and hardly even that.

Bridget delivers her report to her navy masters and they’re not pleased that after over a month at sea she’s made no headway on tracking down the pirate Ferguson, but they’re not so displeased that they do anything more than shake their heads and frown. Experienced captains are hard to come by. Bridget’s commission is hardly at risk, even if Channing tries to imply otherwise.

She knows his hand.

He’s got nothing.

At the end of the meeting she bows and takes her leave. Down at the dock, the naval shipwrights have already started draining the drydock to scrape the _Labrys’_ hull. It’s nice not to have to careen for once. Just like command can’t replace Bridget, they can’t replace her ship either.

Power feels good.

As she watches the work of the dock, a light sea breeze catches a few loose strands of Bridget’s hair and plays them about her face. A smile tugs at her lips.

[] [] []

Evening finds Bridget down by the shore—which isn’t saying much because the island of the naval station is not a large island and most things are ‘ _down by the shore._ ’

Bridget’s crew are, doubtless, up to their usual cavorting. The life of a sailor is cyclical. There’s the sea, then there’s land, and then there’s the sea again. Most find the sea boring and live for the few nights at port spent drinking, gambling, drinking, fucking, and drinking. Bridget is a more than fair hand at all these things but she’s always found that she prefers the sea.

She’s carried the slow crash of waves in her soul for longer than she remembers.

Standing by the pier, she closes her eyes and _listens_.

She listens to the sea.

She listens to the _singing_.

Bridget’s eyes fly open. Mermaids are creatures of the wild ocean. She is not at sea, she’s in port. Every fiber of her being is tense, ready for… for _something_. She casts her eyes about, looking at the few others who are out on the docks at such a late hour.

The night guards walk their patrols, careless in their boredom.

A few dockhands nearby sit around a lantern tossing coins.

None of them can hear it.

But Bridget can hear it in her ears and she can feel it in her heart, incessant, demanding, promising to fill a gaping emptiness in her chest that only came into being when she heard the song. It conceives a need within her, deep as her heart, and it croons an answer.

It is not irresistible.

Still.

Against her better judgement (against any judgment?), Bridget turns and walks towards the end of the wood pier and takes the rickety steps down to the beach. They creak softly under her weight, reminiscent of the deck of a ship. She shivers as she walks and gooseflesh ripples over her skin, even though the night is warm.

Stepping from pier to sandy beach, Bridget knows in her bones—

‘ _Someday, I will drown_.’

But she’s always known that, hasn’t she?

Her feet take her a ways down the beach. With every step, she sinks a little bit into the fine-grained white sand. In her head, always, is the song. As she goes farther from the naval station’s small town, the song gets louder and louder and louder until she comes to a place where the sandy beach rises up a bit to become a rocky outcropping with a short cliff over a deep pool.

This, Bridget thinks, is where the song wants her to be.

She sits down on the edge of the small cliff, elbows on her knees, the bottoms of her boots barely above the spray of the waves below.

Here, she waits.

She doesn’t wait long.

There’s the slightest of changes in the rhythm of the waves and then there’s Franky, head poking up from the dark water. “Hey Gidget,” she greets.

“Franky,” Bridget replies back. “How are you?”

Franky does a flip in the water before steadying. She exhales loudly. “I get bored, Gidge.”

“I bore you?” Bridget asks. “I’m sorry.”

This gets a laugh from Franky. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Bridget’s lips are pulling towards a smile. “And why would I do that?”

Franky is a creature of the sea, but the spark in her eye reminds Bridget of fire—and it lights a liquid heat in her that trickles down from her core to lower places. “Because I want you to,” Franky says.

“Ah, how can I say no?” Bridget replies, tone rich with amusement.

The grin that Franky flashes is cheeky to a fault. “You can’t,” she says. “That’s the point.”

“I could,” Bridget says, knowing full well that she has doubtless told a lie.

Franky pouts. She’s exceptionally good at it. “You’d do that to a girl?”

Bridget points to the pattern that spirals along Franky’s left shoulder. “Is that a tattoo?”

Franky shifts in the water, raising her arm up to give Bridget a better view of the winding blue-green lines that decorate her pale skin. A sheen of water covers her, glimmering in the light of the moon and stars. “Do you like it?” Franky asks.

It reminds Bridget of a bird.

“Yes,” Bridget says, simply. “Does it have a story?”

Franky lowers her arm. “Do you have a story?”

“Not an interesting one, I’m afraid,” Bridget replies.

“Try me,” Franky challenges.

Bridget shrugs. “I joined a Navy ship when I was thirteen,” she says. “I’ve been at sea ever since.”

“You like the sea?” Franky asks.

“She’s very charismatic,” Bridget replies.

Franky bobs beneath the waves, resurfaces, then, “Water’s nice, Gidge,” she says. “Swim with me?”

Bridget inhales sharply. The _singing_ is back—but she’s not sure that it’s coming from Franky. Maybe it’s coming from the ache in her chest. Small smile on her face, she shakes her head, rueful.

Someday, she’ll drown.

Not today.

Franky glowers. “I could make a wave and bring you down here,” she says, cross.

Bridget quirks an eyebrow. She knows a true threat when she hears one. What Bridget has heard now though—there’s no menace and no promise, only petulence. “Are you going to?”

In response, Franky rolls her eyes. Bluff having been called, she seems positively miffed.

Without a word more, she ducks under the level of the sea.

Bridget waits but Franky doesn’t reemerge.

After a while, Bridget sighs. She pushes herself up onto her feet. “Rude,” she shouts out to the empty water. The slow crash of the surf against rocks is the sea’s only reply.

[] [] []

The next night, Bridget doesn’t wait, but she does listen.

She strains her ears as she works the ship’s logs, checking figures and tallying provisions, but she hears… nothing.

There’s only silence.

And the night after that?

Silence as well.

And silence again and again and again, night after night.

[] [] []

When the shipwrights of the port declare that they’ve done all they can for the _Labrys_ , Bridget takes her crew and puts to sea once more. The sea is full of pirates and, somewhere out there, Ferguson lurks.

For God and for country and for the King, Bridget and her crew have work to do.

[] [] []

They’ve been a full month at sea before Franky announces herself again.

It’s sunset with a red sky and Bridget and her crew are checking the deck one last time before leaving the ship to the nightwatchman.

This time it’s not a full song, more an echo. A question rather than a demand.

With a word, Bridget takes the first watch for herself. Her decision meets no resistance. Night watch isn’t a particularly desirable posting. _She_ doesn’t much relish the thought of staying up through the dark.

But.

When the rest of the crew have descended below deck to sleep, Bridget checks that the helm is fastened and then she ambles towards the prow of the _Labrys_. She keeps an eye on the stars and the set of the ship, but the sea is calm and she suspects there’ll be little drift to account for.

It’s not long before Franky shows herself, bobbing alongside the ship.

“Hey Gidge,” she calls up.

“Franky,” Bridget greets back. Smile tugging at her lips, she goes to lean her elbows against the bulwark. “I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you again.”

Franky laughs. Swimming along, she’s easily keeping pace with ship as it cuts through the sea. “I came back because you’re interesting,” she says.

Bridget raises an eyebrow at this. “I’m interesting? How so?”

“Fishing for compliments are ya?” Franky asks.

“Or for a mermaid,” Bridget answers.

Franky makes a rude noise to this. “Have you ever been fished up?” she asks. “Hurts like a shark.”

Bridget pictures Franky and fishing hooks and decides she doesn’t at all like the image she’s conjured up. Rubbing her fingers against the smooth wood of the ship’s rail, she asks, “What does a mermaid do all day?”

Franky dips beneath the waves for a moment, then reemerges. It’s a sort of shrug, Bridget thinks. “I exist,” Franky says. “Sometimes I wreck ships.”

It’s not her words so much as how she says them that—

“That sounds lonely,” Bridget says.

Even as she swims alongside the _Labrys_ , even as she spins lazily in the water, there’s a tension to Franky’s form. Her eyes glimmer in the light of the stars and moon. “You could come swim with me,” she says.

Bridget expects to hear the song, but she doesn’t. She hears only the lapping of the waves against the hull of her ship and the hum of a gentle breeze pushing the vessel along through the night. By the standards of these things, there is quiet.

It would be such a simple thing to climb the bulwark and dive into the sea.

Most sailors can’t swim, but Bridget learned in her youth, growing up alongside the shore.

Swimming by the shore, however, is far different from throwing oneself into the mercy of the open ocean, cold and vast and fathomless.

Bridget pushes herself back slightly from the rail. “I don’t think so,” she says.

Franky replies with a sigh.

[] [] []

Franky visits from time to time as the _Labrys_ sails. Sometimes she’ll be gone a few days, sometimes a few weeks. She’s never absent more than a month.

Her visits are—

Bridget enjoys them.

[] [] []

In the course of Bridget’s work, there are long periods of calm punctuated by brief frenzies of violence.

It’s the way of things.

The boom of cannons fills the powder-thick air.

At the helm of the _Labrys_ , Bridget turns the ship’s wheel hard and the vessel shudders under her feet, changing course. With all her skill, she’s attempting to outsail the next round of broadsides from Ferguson’s five ships. On deck, Bridget’s crew scramble to sponge and load another salvo of their own.

Sweat drips down Bridget’s face but she doesn’t dare take a hand off the wheel to wipe it away. No one’s carefully aiming skippers for mast. Ferguson is wanted dead or alive by the Crown, at any and all costs. This skirmish is strictly shoot-to-kill.

Nearby, the _Wentworth_ , Vice Admiral Channing’s flagship, stands tall, firing salvo after salvo at Ferguson’s small fleet. A proper third-rate ship, its presence would practically guarantee victory if Channing himself weren’t such a lousy commander. Beggars can’t be choosers though and Bridget is just glad for the help. Two sloops are also nearby, sailing British colors and adding to the chaos of it all.

“Steady!” Fletch shouts from down ship.

Bridget turns and rights, then holds, lining them up for a clear shot. The sun beats down on the nape of her neck, merciless. More sweat drips. “Steady!” she shouts back.

Fletch shouts again and then, all at once, the five cannons aboard fire, sending the entire brigantine rocking side to side from the recoil. The thunder of the shots is near deafening. Fat iron spheres go hurtling across the expanse between ships.

Under Bridget’s feet, the deck reels again. It happens so soon after the _Labrys_ cannons fired that she at first mistakes it for a rough wave adding to the mess of Fletch’s cannons. It is not, however, a wave or Fletch’s cannons.

“We’re hit!” someone shouts. “At waterline!”

Responding, Vera yells to start dumping their cannonballs, the cannons themselves, and anything else the crew can lay hands on.

Jaw tight, Bridget turns the _Labrys_ , aiming for flight. Channing will no doubt complain later at her cowardice—and she’d like to be alive to hear it. A solid hit at waterline is a crippling blow.

The _Labrys_ is just starting to limp away when another blast rocks the deck. This one is nearby enough that wood splinters fly, one of them cutting a deep line into Bridget’s cheek. All around there’s screaming, some of it agonized keening and some of it panicked orders to help whomever’s been hurt.

Bridget keeps her focus on sailing her ship.

[] [] []

By the time night comes to the sea, three of Bridget’s crew are dead.

Weary, Bridget sits alone with her back against the mainmast and watches the moon cross the sky. There’s dried blood all down her face, on her hands, soaked into her clothes. She’s too tired to pick herself up and go to her bed, even though her quarters are only some few yards away. Even when the singing starts, she stays seated. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back to rest against the mast behind her.

She listens.

For once the song is mellow, not demanding, not insistent.

It’s... peaceful.

Note by note, it draws Bridget to sleep.

[] [] []

Replacing the cannons they dumped fleeing Channing’s fiasco is a fiasco in and of itself. Furious that the Labrys turned and ran, Channing claims that the naval base has none to spare. He’s probably right, but if he wanted to help, he could help—or if Bridget had the coin to encourage him. He’s nothing if not a greedy bastard.

It takes three months before they manage to intimidate a Spanish merchant ship with two six-pounders to surrender without a fight. Organizing the crew to drag the artillery across to the Labrys, Fletch makes noises about how Spanish guns are inferior to honest British iron, but the grumbling doesn’t last long. As soon as the cannons are lashed to their deck, they’re Fletch’s children and he makes a try at boxing Will’s ears for suggesting they’re not as good as the ones they dumped running from Ferguson.

Bridget watches it play out with no small amount of amusement. Will and Fletch are fast friends and if they get to wrestling over a joke, it won’t upset the ship. For appearance’s sake though, she calls Fletch aside once they’re under way again, new cannons fastened above deck and a great stock of plundered rum stashed safely below.

Leaning against the portside bulwark in the shade of the sails, Bridget taps the rail for Fletch to join her. Looking like a proud mother hen, he obliges, slumping down to get his elbows propped on the rail. With Fletch hunched over, Bridget doesn’t have to strain her neck quite as much looking up at him.

She made her peace with being short a long time ago, but sometimes a few extra inches would be nice.

“The Navy would never have stood for that,” Bridget admonishes, not bothering to put any bite in her voice. Navy discipline is one of the many reasons she and her crew left their old lives to sail as privateers.

Fletch chuckles. He’s got new toys and he’s happy. When he’s happy, he gets silly. “We’re not in the Navy anymore,” he says.

Bridget glances up. There’s a sparkle in Fletch’s eyes.

“Thank God for that,” the two of them chorus together.

[] [] []

Franky doesn’t think much of the Royal Navy.

“They’re scared of the water, Gidge,” she complains, lounging in the waves. “What’re they doing hundreds of miles from land if they’re scared of the sea?” She rolls her eyes dramatically.

Draped over the ship’s rail, Bridget hesitates, then, replying evenly, “I’m scared of the sea.”

Franky huffs. “Gidget,” she starts. “You wound me.”

To this, Bridget arches an eyebrow. “Do I?” she asks. “I thought you’d take it as a compliment.”

Franky’s laughter, ringing out across the empty ocean, is clear and bright.

[] [] []

The _Labrys_ spends most of her time in the warm waters of the southern seas, but from time to time Bridget and her crew wander northwards towards the colonies. The Carolinas are lousy with pirates darting in and out of shallow inlets, so when there’s little work to be had elsewhere, it’s to the Carolinas that the _Labrys_ sails.

The seas are rougher in the north Atlantic. Bridget doesn’t mind, but many of her crew do. There are fewer islands to beach on as well, and, in cold months, near freezing rain has a way of seeping through tarred coats to chill bones. Even though Bridget doesn’t mind rougher seas, she does mind being cold. She doesn’t take the _Labrys_ to the colonies unless she has to.

Will alone is _happy_ about going north.

It takes a few voyages before Bridget catches on to why.

“When will you let us meet her?” Bridget asks, tone conversational, as they cross the gangway from the ship to the dock in the Charleston harbor in late evening.

Will coughs, a sure tell that he’s about to lie, badly. “What’s that?”

“Her, right?” Bridget asks. “Unless I’m wrong?”

On the dock now, Will sets his hands on his hips. He makes a face that looks like a cross between anxiety and disappointment. It’s another one of his tells. “I don’t get your meaning.”

Bridget offers an encouraging smile and then turns towards the port city. She has to meet with the local dockmaster to sort out the _Labrys_ berth while the crew is landside.

In one of the last battles of the war, Will’s wife, Commodore Meg Jackson, slipped from the deck and fell overboard. In the aftermath, her body was never found. Like so many others, she probably drowned.

Years later, it’s good to see Will… grieving less.

“Her name is Rose!” Will calls towards Bridget’s retreating back.

[] [] []

“How deep is the ocean?” Bridget asks.

The _Labrys_ is anchored some distance from an island that’s more a pile of sand and rock than anything that could properly be called an island. On the night horizon, tall storm clouds loom. The air smells of coming rain. Leaning against the bulwark by the starboard shroud of the mainmast, Bridget is calmly certain that the storm won’t come towards them.

Franky is lazing about on her back in the water, pale breasts only sometimes obscured by waves. Her shimmering indigo tail occasionally flicks to keep her steady. She stretches her arms, suggesting dispassion. The purr of her voice, however, is anything but _dispassionate_. “I could show you. Would you like that?”

There’s a part of Bridget that wants to say yes. There will always be a part of her, she knows, that will want to say yes. And that part of her will always ache as she pushes it aside.

“If you just told me, I’d believe you,” Bridget replies.

Franky snorts. “Where’s the fun in that?”

[] [] []

Out of everyone aboard the ship with Bridget, Vera is the only one to comment on the frequency with which Bridget volunteers for night watches—sometimes as often as once a week.

It’s not even really a comment from Vera, more a pointed frown as Bridget announces assignments.

Bridget catches Vera’s eye and shrugs.

Vera doesn’t stop frowning, but she does nod slightly.

The two of them have served together for almost their entire careers.

Bridget knows Vera trusts her.

[] [] []

Time?

What is time?

Time is a concept that flits by in measures that grow ever more meaningless.

Time passes.

Fletch loses cannons, replaces them, loses them again.

Will stops seeing Rose, moves on to Marie—a snake for sure, but Bridget holds her tongue.

Vera keeps the ship running smoothly.

And Bridget—

Bridget hunts pirates and she does her job very, very well, though Ferguson eternally evades her. The _Labrys_ , it is said in ports, is the fastest ship on the waters and blessed by a God who sits above even the tempestuous sea.

When Bridget hears these things, she’ll start to smile and then the smile will fade as she tries to ignore the emptiness in her chest that sits ever-present at the edge of her awareness.

As Bridget’s reputation grows, His Majesty’s enemies take notice. Single ships see her on the horizon and flee. Sometimes they escape. Most of the time they don’t. Ships sailing together, however, are much more bold.

With good reason.

Four against one, with the four sailing Ferguson’s colors and rounding out from a screened cove, very nearly upon them.

Trap.

Bridget doesn’t like the odds so she orders a hard swing to port and a fast retreat. The words have no sooner left her mouth than her crew spring to action adjusting the sails. They don’t like the odds any more than she does. At the helm, Vera turns the ship as fast as the craft can bear, wood groaning loud at the strain. The entire deck tilts.

Bridget keeps her footing and so do all other souls aboard.

Even longshoremen have sea legs, and Bridget and her crew are anything but.

Bridget paces back to the stern of the ship to watch the distance between the _Labrys_ and the sloops coming after her quickly close. Her right hand settles on her pistol, her left hand settles on the hilt of her sabre. Neither will do as much good in a fight as one of the boarding pikes stowed by the mast, but she finds comfort in the feel of them. Chasing and being chased—these are two very different things. In pursuit, there’s little fear of failure. Running, the consequences are grave and everything depends on the wind and the sea.

Every day, Bridget and her crew live by the whims of the ocean, but on some days this is more the case than on others.

It is not true that the _Labrys_ is the swiftest ship to sail. Rather, the _Labrys_ is a small brigantine of moderate quality with a strong crew and exceptionally good luck with weather. At the moment they’re low in the water, heavy with cargo—canvas and rope and molasses. With four agile sloops pursuing, the _Labrys_ will be caught and the ensuing fight will be one that no one really wins.

Is there time to toss the cargo, lighten the ship, sail faster?

Bridget’s lips press into a tight line.

No. There’s no time and thus no point. Even if the _Labrys_ sailed empty, the sloops would catch her.

And if they swing about—she knows from years of experience that broadsides do little against craft as small and maneuverable as the ones chasing them now. Fletch is a brilliant master gunner, but he’s only human and some things aren’t possible.

Turning away from the grim scene behind them, Bridget stalks across the deck. She prepares to shout, needing to be heard clear—

A cry goes up from the prow. On the horizon but rolling fast towards them are pitch dark clouds of storm, heavy with rain and causing the waters to rage before them. Forked lightning flashes, leaping about through the salt-smelling air.

Looking out towards the tempest and the roiling deeps, Bridget hears the song and she _knows_.

She calls out an order. Her words hang in the crisp winter air for a moment of motionless terror. And then Vera at the helm turns the ship and the crew work the sails.

The _Labrys_ makes for the storm.

[] [] []

As wind and frigid torrent lash the deck, Bridget controls the helm with Vera supporting. Between them, Bridget has more experience sailing through storms, though it’s not something the _Labrys_ has been made to do in some time. In black squall, running the ship’s wheel takes the hands of at least two.

Around the ship it’s dark and it takes all Bridget’s skill to keep her craft afloat and cutting the waves. The sun doesn’t pierce the clouds above and so they go by brief flashes of lightning. Rain slams down, raging and relentless.

The hatches have been battened, all loose ends secured, the sails reduced, and what crew aren’t below pumping water are up above, hunkered down against the storm, waiting to cut the masts should they break.

Though the _Labrys_ tilts and turns and the screaming of its wood body joins with the fury of the tempest, the masts don’t break.

Somewhere out in the black of the storm—

If the sloops were foolish enough to follow them into the storm, the shattering waves have surely taken them.

But the _Labrys_ —

Bridget is not blind and she is not naive.

She knows she has sailed them into this maelstrom following _faith_.

The nature of faith is uncertainty, and, at times, desperate terror.

She knows her course but not the path she treads.

[] [] []

On the other side, the sun doesn’t feel real, the quiet rings loudly, and the calm could be mistaken for death.

[] [] []

When night falls, Bridget hears it.

Already wearing her trousers, she rises from her bed, pulls on a shirt and dons a coat as well. There’s a chill in the air tonight. Stepping out onto the deck, she nods to Vera manning the helm on the aft of the ship before making her way to the prow. There’s no one else up and about except for a lookout sitting on the mainmast top high above.

Tonight, after fighting their way through the storm, the rest of the crew are lying exhausted below-deck, sleeping their way through well-deserved rest.

Having left her boots in her quarters, Bridget feels the grain of the wood of the deck under her bare feet. She’s spent nearly her whole life at sea and she barely feels the gentle motion of the ship as it slips quietly through the dark.

She doesn’t rush her steps, but she wants to.

The singing in her ears (or maybe it’s in her chest?) is insistent.

Bridget is being called and the singer is, characteristically, impatient.

When Bridget reaches the bulwark, she sets both hands on it and leans forward, peering down towards the dark sea.

Franky is waiting.

She looks pleased with herself.

In all the time that’s passed, it seems to Bridget that Franky hasn’t aged a day. And why should she have? “It’s been a while,” Bridget says.

It’s been a few weeks. A month, at the most. It _feels_ like it’s been much longer though.

Franky’s grin is lopsided. “Really?”

Bridget nods. “Mmhm.”

Franky shrugs, a show of nonchalance. “I’ve been around,” she says. “Now will you swim with me?”

The corners of Bridget’s mouth tip up slightly, the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach her cheeks but still touches her eyes. “Thank you for the storm,” she says.

Franky starts to preen, then stops herself. “You changed the subject,” she accuses, eyes narrowing.

Bridget shrugs. “I did.”

Franky’s sigh is the purest exasperation Bridget has ever heard. “What do humans usually want?” she asks.

“Pardon?” Bridget replies.

“What’ll get you to come swim with me?”

Bridget’s smile grows. She shrugs again. She says nothing.

Franky rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she huffs. “Be that way.”

And then she vanishes beneath the surface of the sea and doesn’t reemerge.

For a long time, Bridget stands at the bulwark, looking out over the open ocean, smile still playing across her face. The emptiness in her chest has gotten worse. Over the years it has grown and grown, an aching sense that she is incomplete, and with it the certain fear of what she might do to make herself whole.

But.

The emptiness won’t last forever.

Franky will be back.

[] [] []

Days pass.

Then weeks.

[] [] []

Bridget is in port again the next time she hears it.

She’s sitting at a table in a tavern sharing drinks with Vera and Will and Fletch. As old sailors do, they’re passing the time telling tales of great sea chases and great sea fights and crowded all around them are the young men of the navy desperate to hear more of the great Captain Westfall and the _Labrys_. Fletch is a master storyteller, Will does his supporting part adding in embellishments, Vera looks sternly on, nodding at appropriate times, and Bridget watches it all with a sort of pride.

As soon as the singing starts, Bridget knows it for what it is.

In one draught she finishes her rum, slides the empty cup down along the table, and stands. She excuses herself loudly and turns to go. Before she quite finishes turning though, Vera catches her eye and raises an eyebrow. Unable and uncaring to stop herself, Bridget replies with a half-grin.

The night is gloomy but the moonlight that does manage to shine through the clouds is still enough to light Bridget’s way once she gets down to the beach. Taking off her boots and carrying them at her side, she walks through the sand, enjoying the feel of it under her bare feet, between her toes. She follows the edge of the water. She follows the music in her head.

She has to go a long way this time.

Franky has chosen a smooth piece of beach with gentle waves.

Bridget sits down on the sand and waits.

When Franky emerges—

It’s the least graceful thing Bridget can fathom a mermaid doing. Franky sort of crests an incoming wave and then crashes onto her face on the wet beach. Bridget rises and heads down to where Franky is being smothered by another wave.

Franky flops and gets another foot or so up onto the shore.

Bemused, standing and looking down at Franky, Bridget tilts her head to the side. She… doesn’t recall Franky having legs.

They are very nice legs.

Very nice.

Very.

They’re just not… a tail.

“Where did you get those?” Bridget asks.

Franky rolls her eyes. “Found ‘em,” she replies, as if the answer is obvious. She wiggles, dragging herself a bit farther out of the water. She’s face down in the sand and Bridget’s eyes drift to the curve of… where her tail ought to be. “Can’t get ‘em to work though,” Franky complains. “You gonna help me or what?”

Bridget hesitates. “You want to come up the beach?” she asks. The thought of Franky on land feels jagged in her head, wrong, somehow. Even still halfway in the water as she is, Franky seems… _vulnerable_. Vulnerability is as alien to her as land.

Franky glares. She pushes herself up slightly with her hands, though in the soft sand she sinks as much as she rises. “Well you won’t come into the water with me, will ya? So yeah.”

Bridget clears her throat and braces herself before squatting down, hooking her hands under Franky’s armpits, and heaving. Bridget gets them maybe two yards up the beach where the sand is firmer, far enough that only the occasional wave can reach them, and then props Franky up into a sitting position.

When that’s done, Bridget, still standing, takes a step back.

Franky is very attractive.

Franky is also very naked.

She’s a mermaid.

Surely she must realize—

“Hey,” Franky says. She’s grinning ear to ear and she’s clearly up to something. She brushes sand off her face. “Come here, I want to tell you something.”

Extremely aware of what every bit of her body feels like, Bridget squats down next to Franky.

As soon as Bridget is within reach, Franky grabs a fistful of Bridget’s shirt, pulls her forward, and kisses her deeply— _aggressively_ , even. She spends a half moment being soft about it and then abandons any pretenses of restraint.

Oh thank God.

Franky tastes of sea salt.

Sort of balancing on her toes in the sand next to Franky is too much work so Bridget straddles her lap instead. Bridget sets her hands to cup the back of Franky’s head. Franky’s hands go straight to Bridget’s ass.

Much better.

After a while, Franky pulls away from the kiss and pokes at Bridget’s shirt with her nose. “Take this off,” she says.

Bridget gets caught between a smile and a laugh. She looks down at herself, her white ruffled shirt, her blue jacket. Her clothes, the ones she wears landside, fell off an unwary merchant ship a little while ago. They’re well-made and she’s fond of them. “I thought you liked my clothes?”

“I’ll like ’em more when they’re off,” is what Franky says to that, smirking. She quirks an eyebrow and there’s no arguing with that—even if Bridget were so inclined. And she is not so inclined.

Bridget’s clothes get thrown a bit up the beach, safe from the the grasping waves. Bridget wouldn’t put it past Franky to steal more than just a hat while she’s distracted.

As much as Bridget tries to run her hands along Franky’s body, tries to show her why it is that humanity is something worth having, there’s not much use in it. On top of Bridget, Franky catches Bridget’s wrists and pushes them down into the wet sand.

Slim as she is, she’s strong.

Franky wants control. Franky _has_ control.

Bridget doesn’t mind letting her have it.

Franky nips at the soft of Bridget’s ear and Bridget’s breath comes out as a hiss.

Franky presses her lips to the column of Bridget’s neck and Bridget tilts her head to the side, exposing more of herself.

From time to time, a cool wave will creep up the beach and lap at Bridget’s feet, making her toes curl.

Franky releases one of Bridget’s wrists and draws a short fingernail lightly between her breasts, traveling lower, trailing in a line over her stomach. She circles the pad of a fingertip around Bridget’s belly button before reaching down to nudge Bridget’s legs apart.

For not knowing much about legs, Franky does extremely well navigating her mouth between Bridget’s thighs. She drags her tongue along Bridget’s center, slow as sin, and _fuck_ if they haven’t both been waiting too long already.

When Bridget is tired and Franky isn’t, they lie together sprawled on the beach.

There’s night left yet in the sky. The stars are out. They’re bright, and the luminous road they form shines down on the world below.

“Will you swim with me now?” Franky asks.

Her question gives Bridget pause. She tries to search Franky’s green eyes, but she’s not sure what it is that she finds there. “Is that what this was about?” she asks.

Franky grins and chuckles. “Nah,” she says.

[] [] []

It’s strange, the way Bridget’s life shifts.

Until now, every moment she’s spent ashore she’s always yearned to be out at sea.

Now, she still yearns for the sea, but she looks forward to making landfall as well.

Odd what it took to teach her a love for the place where earth and ocean touch.

And Franky is always there—

No matter what port, what island, what shore, Franky is there.

When Bridget asks if Franky is stalking her and her ship, Franky shrugs. Everywhere Bridget goes is by the sea, she says. She doesn’t need to stalk.

Bridget presses for a _how_ , and Franky waves a hand, dismissive.

The stars show her the way.

[] [] []

Mermaids see different shapes in the stars than humans.

Franky points them out to Bridget and teaches her their names as Bridget traces fingertips over the blue-green lines decorating Franky’s skin.

[] [] []

“Why is it that you only come at night?” Bridget asks once.

Franky responds with a shrug. “I’m dramatic,” is her answer.

[] [] []

The _Labrys_ is sailing at a decent clip headed back to port after a successful skirmish with one of Ferguson’s lieutenants when Bridget sees Franky for the first time in the sun.

Bridget is sitting on the deck cleaning her sabre when the singing starts in her bones, incessant, demanding, urgent. She shoves her blade back into its wood and leather scabbard, stands, goes to the bulwark beneath the foremast shrouds at starboard and peers over.

Franky has come up alongside the ship and she’s trailing a thick cloud of dark blood behind her.

A curse slips Bridget’s lips. Then, “Shit, baby, what happened?”

Franky’s grin is a little weak. “Had an argument with a shark,” she says. “I won. Can I come up?”

Bridget glances back towards the crew on deck. Most of them have stopped what they’re doing to stare at her. Ignoring them, she lays eyes on her quartermaster. “Will,” she calls. “Get a rope.”

With Will’s help, she manages to haul Franky up from the water and onto the ship. In the harsh midday light, lying on the deck, Franky looks a lot like a sad fish, even though she’s donned her legs for the time being.

When she said that she had an argument with a shark—

Maybe ‘ _shark_ ’ is some kind of metaphor, but in Bridget’s opinion, it does indeed seem that something took a bite out of her side. She’s not bleeding as badly as Bridget feared when she first looked over the bulwark and saw the ominous state of the water. But she’s a mess.

Not without effort, Bridget scoops Franky up off the deck, cradling her. It’s an awkward motion because Bridget is by a measure the smaller of the two of them, but living most of her life on a ship has made her strong.  She glances at her crew, who are still staring wide-eyed.

Bridget takes a deep breath. She should probably make some attempt at an explanation.

“Everyone,” Bridget begins. “This is Franky. Franky is why we never have problems with the weather.”

And then Bridget turns her back on her crew and carries Franky off to the cramped captain’s quarters in the rear of the ship. Franky is quite naked and Bridget isn’t fond of the leers she’s attracting.

In her room, she sits Franky on top of one of her two sea chests. She has two because—one is for her good clothes. The other is for everything else. It’s from the latter that she pulls out a needle, thread, and a flask of rum. Strong sun from the outside streams into the room through open portholes, giving Bridget more than enough light to work in. Even with the portholes open though, the room is on the stuffy side.

Standing in front of Franky, holding her implements, Bridget sizes up the extent of the injury.

Most of it can be bandaged and left alone, she thinks. There are three deep gashes across her abdomen, however, that will require more. Franky, for her part, is sitting slumped and quiet. She’s paler than usual by a good deal.

“Franky, you’re not going to like what comes next,” Bridget warns.

“Just make it better, Gidge,” Franky whines.

Bridget does her best to make it better, but it gets worse first. Franky manages to hold still far better than most of the men and women Bridget has patched together in her day.

“Are you going to tell me what actually happened?” Bridget asks as she ties off her last set of stitches.

“Shark thought I wanted her man.” Franky sighs, exasperated. “Everyone fucking _knows_ I don’t like men.”

[] [] []

Bridget helps Franky to lie down in Bridget’s bunk.

Legs are still not a thing Franky quite understands.

She also doesn’t understand that Bridget has to go back out onto the deck and explain, somehow, the presence of a shark-bitten mermaid on the ship.

Why can’t Bridget stay and cuddle?

Because _responsibilities_ , Franky.

[] [] []

The crew are, of course, unsettled, but they’re not terribly surprised. Bridget’s _Labrys_ has had good luck over the past years that can’t be explained in any way except black magic. Everyone made their peace with sailing under a curse some time ago. Unnatural luck is still luck.

It’s Vera who pulls Bridget aside.

“A mermaid?” Vera asks. Her brow is furrowed. She’s gotten that way she gets when she’s concerned—she won’t let up until she’s satisfied her and hers are safe.

Vera is a very good first mate.

“Vera…” Bridget starts, already shaking her head. “She won’t hurt the ship or the crew. I made a deal a long time ago.”

Vera reaches out and sets her hand on Bridget’s elbow. None of her intensity has abated. “But what about you?”

[] [] []

Franky heals fast.

It would be wrong to say that she’s back on her feet in hardly any time at all because she was never on her feet in the first place.

With nothing much else to do, she finally figures out walking, and then running too. Even as she careens around the deck in borrowed clothes, going far too fast for how unsteady she is, Bridget isn’t concerned. If Franky falls overboard, she’ll survive.

Her antics win Bridget’s crew over quickly.

Fletch takes to winking at Bridget constantly and Vera starts to spend less time scowling.

(Vera, of course, still scowls without fail whenever Franky jokes about exactly how much she scowls.)

Bridget doesn’t need her crew’s approval—but their approval still feels good.

[] [] []

Franky in Bridget’s bed every night feels good too.

She’s charted every inch of Bridget’s body and, at sea, they have all the time in the world.

[] [] []

Once, lying in her narrow bunk with Franky warm in her arms, a stray thought crosses Bridget’s mind and she tries to ask _what_ Franky is.

She resembles flesh and blood, but she’s not.

Franky’s answer is simple. “I’m your Franky.” She flops around, wiggling so that she can face Bridget. Their noses touch. “What’re you?”

Responding in kind, smiling, “Your Gidget,” Bridget replies.

Franky rewards this reply with a kiss. Her lips are soft and, as always, she tastes of the sea. When Franky pulls away, “You never gave me your story, Gidge,” she says, tone playful.

Bridget hums for a moment, then, “I told you it wasn’t very interesting.”

Franky makes a _tch_ noise. “Nah. It’s you. ‘Course it’s interesting.”

Bridget shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her bunk is not roomy by any stretch of the imagination. Franky is lying on top of her arm and it’s starting to go numb. She has no intention of saying anything about this though. She doesn't actually want Franky to move.

When she’s found a slightly better spot, Bridget does tell Franky her story, though as she tells it she does not linger. The parts of her story that came before Franky—her days in the Royal Navy, all the great battles of the war, even her second start privateering—it all seems like another life. Someone else’s life. Interesting perhaps to Franky, but, to Bridget, unimportant.

As Bridget’s arm, pinned under Franky’s weight, loses all sensation, she thinks that what matters in her life isn’t in the past, it’s here with her in the now.

[] [] []

Franky stays aboard for three weeks.

And then one morning, Bridget wakes up in her bed alone and the empty ache in her chest is back a thousandfold stronger than she’s ever felt it before.

It makes her curl in on herself and shake.

Desolate, she holds herself.

[] [] []

Throughout the day, Bridget keeps an eye on the course of the sun.

She watches it rise up from the sea, shine bright at its midday peak, and then descend again towards the water.

[] [] []

When night comes, Bridget doesn’t wait for the singing. She stands at the bulwark and waits for Franky.

Franky makes Bridget wait nearly half the night. The moon is sinking towards the horizon when she finally makes her appearance.

Bridget skips pleasantries. She starts, “It isn’t fair that you can always call me but I have to wait for you.”

Languid, Franky spins in the water, rising up and diving down, her shimmering tail coming above the surface for a moment before she finishes her turn and reemerges. She grins at Bridget. “You could always come swim with me,” she says.

Bridget offers a wry smile. “I can’t,” she says. The words come out wistful. “I have my ship. I have my crew. I have this life.”

Franky raises a hand towards Bridget, inviting. “I’ll put you back on your ship,” she says. Her confident grin doesn’t waver, but her voice does—though it’s almost so faint that Bridget misses it.

Ah—the singing _hurts_. There are notes of hope in it now, and the hope makes it so much more than it’s ever been before. Bridget meets Franky’s eyes as best she can in the dark of the half-done night. After a long pause, “Do you promise?” she asks.

Franky grins. “Promise.”

There’s no one else nearby on the deck, and even if there were—

Bridget strips down, leaving her clothes in a neat pile a safe distance from the edge of the deck. Good clothes are hard to come by so far from civilization. She sets her captain’s hat on top of the pile so that anyone will know whose clothes they are—and what has happened to her if Franky should fail her promise.

When she dives over the edge of the ship, she does it cleanly, cutting into the inky water with a minimum of splashing.

Bridget is a strong swimmer, a rarity even among naval officers. Even so, to be a single soul afloat in the open ocean—the vastness of the level sea dwarfs her sense of self in a way that drives a piercing terror into her. Waves stretch out in every direction as she floats above the depths. The sureness of death is close.

And the water is cold.

A pair of strong arms wrap around her from behind, holding her steady and afloat, head above the waves. Instead of continuing to tread water, Bridget leans back into the embrace. Franky gets her chin on Bridget’s shoulder. “Hi Gidge.”

“Franky,” Bridget replies.

Franky spins her around so that they’re facing. Franky is grinning wide and there’s nothing shark-like, nothing predatory about it. She touches her forehead to Bridget’s. “Was that so hard?” Franky asks.

Franky smells of salt and of sea.

Bridget rests her arms on Franky’s shoulders. She answers the question with her lips, pressing hers to Franky’s and then kissing Franky deeply.

Her awareness of the world narrows down to the woman in her arms.

She’s not aware of the moment that they slip beneath the waves.

She’s not aware of the moment when the warmth of summer gives way to the ice of the depths.

She’s not aware of the moment moonlight dwindles to nothing.

At some point though—

Bridget understands that she has gone too far.

Does she have regrets?

Maybe.

And maybe not.

The water is frigid and it is dark but for once she feels complete, swallowed by the sea.

As Bridget’s world fades, Franky has her still and she feels _right_.

[] [] []

Bridget wakes in her bed in her quarters. Again, she is alone and the longing is a physical pain, crippling.

The sea kept her promise.

[] [] []

They settle into a rhythm, tidal.

When the _Labrys_ puts to port, Bridget walks along the shore and Franky comes up from the waves to meet her.

Out on the level sea, Bridget goes to Franky.

But, always—

“Will you take me back to my ship?” Bridget will ask.

“Sure,” Franky will say, with never enough solemnity to make an oath.

“Promise?” Bridget will ask.

“Promise,” Franky will reply.

[] [] []

Time comes.

Time goes.

The _Labrys_ and her crew mark time by short cargo runs, skirmishes large and small, and regular careenings to scrape the hull of barnacles and seaweed. As bits and pieces of the ship wear away, they’re repaired or replaced. It’s a constant cycle of renewal.

Bridget marks time by—

“What’s this?” Bridget asks. She knows the thing that Franky has handed her is a seashell, though oddly shaped as these things go. It’s a reddish bit, worn smooth by the ocean waves.

“I found it and I liked it,” Franky says, shrugging. They’re sitting together on a beach around the corner of the island shore from where the _Labrys_ is dragged up for careening. It’s a cloudy night. “Figured you’d like it too.”

Bridget sort of hums as she turns the shell over in her hand, getting the feel of it. “It reminds me of a kite,” she says.

“Kite?”

“It’s a children’s toy,” Bridget explains. “They catch the wind and they fly. They’re very…” She pauses, searching for a word to describe her memories of kites from when she was very young. “They’re very freeing.”

Franky chuckles. There’s an intention in her sparkling eyes. “Freedom’s feels good, Gidge, you should try it sometime.”

“Sometime,” Bridget echoes, absentminded. Franky is smirking and Bridget’s mind has wandered to things that are not conversation.

Bridget has enough sense to tuck the shell safely into a pocket before they continue.

Later, she puts the shell in her cabin aboard the _Labrys_.

Though it’s not the last shell Franky gives her, it’s the first, and as the rest pile up in her room, she keeps it apart.

[] [] []

When Bridget catches Ferguson, the battle is a bloodbath. The chaos of powder and steel turns the deck of the _Labrys_ slick and the waters around it crimson.

Bridget loses her left hand.

Ferguson loses her freedom.

After so many skirmishes, so many near misses, so many _years_ , Bridget stands staring at Ferguson in the brig of the _Labrys_. In the bowels of the ship, the dark air is damp and stinks of sweat and grime. Humidity sits, heavy, over everything.

Ferguson, still wearing a shirt splattered with Bridget’s blood, stares back at Bridget and all Bridget sees in her eyes is an abyss.

Ferguson’s gaze flickers to the bandaged stump where Bridget’s hand used to be. Calm, controlled, without a hint of fear for her end, Ferguson asks, “Was it worth it?”

[] [] []

When Franky sees what’s happened, she gives Bridget a piece of her mind and then some.

Bridget forces a laugh and replies, “At least I didn’t have an argument with a shark.”

[] [] []

Bridget doesn’t linger at the naval station to watch Ferguson hang.

She’d prefer to be at sea.

Not doing anything in particular, just—being.

Sailing.

Feeling the sway of the ocean under her feet and the bright sun on her face.

Feeling the wind in her hair as it catches the sails and sends them on their way, leaving the prison of land behind.

She’s tired of hunting pirates.

[] [] []

It takes weeks to stop reaching for things with the hand that’s not there anymore.

The rudimentary wood hook that Will makes for her chafes and, except for when she has to use two hands, it’s faster to reach over and do things with her right than fumble about with her left.

One night at dinner, watching Bridget struggle to hold her plate and eat at the same time, Vera asks, “Was it worth it?”

They’re seated together on the deck at the prow of the ship. The sun is still above the horizon but the moon and stars are already visible in the purple sky. A few clouds float about but, by and large, the sky is clear. It will be a calm night.

Bridget chews her salted beef thoroughly and swallows before, “No,” she says. “I don’t think it was.”

“Do you ever feel old, Bridget?” Vera asks.

Bridget sighs. “Increasingly,” she answers.

[] [] []

With Ferguson gone, the ships formerly under her command scatter. Engagements are now more often simple mop-ups chasing down single vessels that surrender quickly rather than skirmishes or full-blown battles. No one wants to fight Bridget, the _Labrys_ , or the crew that captured the most terrifying pirate to sail the seas.

It almost…

It makes life boring.

Sitting on the shore, Bridget says as much to Franky.

Franky laughs, declares she knows how to make life less boring, and then fucks Bridget to the rhythm of the waves.

[] [] []

It’s Fletch who goes first.

He takes a proper officer’s commission at the naval station commanding their guns. ‘ _A more peaceful job_ ,’ he calls it. He still drinks with them when they make port, but it’s clear his days of roving the high seas are at an end.

When Will goes, it’s for a sweetheart. Kaz is a reformed pirate retired into more reputable things. She runs a poorhouse for women and, Will insists, her poorhouse for women isn’t a euphemism. It’s exactly what she claims it is. It’s a shelter from storm.

They seem a good match, better than the others he’s tried over the years, and Bridget doesn’t begrudge Will his leave.

Vera, unsurprisingly, is the last to choose land over sea.

For years she’s been a kindred spirit but, in the end, Vera wants more for herself than simply to sail.

Saying goodbye is hard.

[] [] []

Replacing Fletch, Will, Vera—

All sorts want to sail with Bridget. She’s a legend.

The problem is that Bridget doesn’t want to sail with them.

Her new first mate, Jake, is insufferably obsequious to the point that she’s not sure he can operate independent of her orders. The rest of her new crew aren’t any better. They’re inexperienced and need constant oversight. Teaching them to sail keeps Bridget busier than she’s been since she was a junior officer in the Navy.

The only upside to it all is that her new crew know her as a legend rather than a person and so they do as they’re told.

Or perhaps that’s a downside.

It’s exhausting work running the _Labrys_ without Vera, Fletch, Will—Bridget even finds herself missing Linda, retired to run a gambling house in one of the seedier ports—and she has little time to herself.

Still though, she _makes_ time to take night watch.

She makes time for Franky.

[] [] []

Some mornings, Bridget wakes up and thinks she can still feel her missing hand.

When she remembers that she is not whole—

Bridget holds Franky’s kite, closes her eyes, and listens.

[] [] []

On the beach, lying in the sand and watching the stars, Bridget rests her single hand over Franky’s chest. Franky’s heart beats in time with the waves breaking along the shore. “Why me?” Bridget asks.

Franky slips a hand over Bridget’s. She twines their fingers together. Her grin is as mischievous and fierce as it was years ago. Bridget has aged. Franky hasn’t. It’s been… a long time. They have not grown old together. “Because you love me, Gidge,” Franky says.

Bridget hums. She gives Franky’s hand a small squeeze. “What did you do with the hat?”

Franky laughs. Her eyes, green and ever sparkling, dance with her mirth. “I’ve still got it,” she says. “I’m keeping it safe for you.”

“Safe for me?” Bridget replies, smiling. “I gave it to you to keep.”

“That’s good to know,” Franky says, then presses a kiss to Bridget’s cheek.

[] [] []

The world has changed.

There are fewer pirates now, fewer privateers, more navymen, more merchants.

And the merchants—

Bridget has never seen so many slave ships and she knows in her gut there will be many more to come. They sail under the aegis of the Crown and she’d be traitor to seize them, but watching them sail past fills her with disgust—for the slavers, for the Crown, for _herself_.

Her new crew don’t share her frustrations, and that’s a frustration in its own way.

Going through the motions of running her ship, Bridget is distant from it all.

[] [] []

Sitting in a tavern drinking with her friends, Bridget almost feels young again.

She can almost pretend that Fletch, sedentary in his naval post, hasn’t started to round. That Will’s hair hasn’t started to grey. That Vera doesn’t look haggard even on her one night not looking after her infant daughter.

But when, one by one, just as they left her ship, Bridget’s friends rise from the table to go back to their lives, she knows she’s not young anymore.

Will and Fletch excuse themselves only an hour or so after sunset. When they go, they look back, but they don’t hesitate in their leaving.

Vera though—

Vera lingers.

Bridget still seated, Vera standing, they exchange tired smiles across the grimy wood table. Around them, the tavern is abuzz with the cacophony of sailors living shore leave to its fullest. Near them though, time feels, for the moment, frozen.

“Will you ever stop sailing?” Vera asks. There’s a tension in her features, in the subtle crow’s feet that have emerged over the years at the corners of her eyes. Bridget reads it as some degree of sadness, tinged with resignation.

In answer, Bridget shakes her head, slow. “I don’t think so.”

“If you do, there’s a place for you here,” Vera says. “We miss you.”

Bridget shakes her head again. She gestures to indicate the room, and beyond. Her tired smile feels tight on her face. “This isn’t me, Vera.”

Vera sighs, a single forceful exhalation. “I know.” She touches Bridget’s shoulder as she heads towards the tavern door. “Goodbye, Bridget.”

Bridget brushes her fingers over Vera’s, holding her for a moment longer. “Goodbye, Vera.”

Then the moment passes and Vera goes.

Left alone in the crowd of the tavern, Bridget finishes her wine.

[] [] []

She goes down to the pier of the naval station and then to the sandy beach. She takes off her boots and carries them. A strong wind tugs at her hair. Clouds cover the stars and obscure the moon. What light there is glitters on choppy waters. It’s a warm night and the air smells like coming rain.

Bridget walks along the shore, letting the breaking waves tug at her bare feet.

She goes to the rocky outcropping with its short cliff over a deep pool and she waits, seated on the edge, feet dangling, elbows on her knees. The sea is rough tonight and salt spray, cast by the crashing tide, wets her shins.

It’s not long before Franky’s head pops up from the dark waters. She eyes the cliff suspiciously. “You’re not planning on making me climb, are you?” she calls up.

Bridget laughs and shakes her head.

She stands.

Her clothes go in a careless pile and she dives into the cool waters.

The press of the waves is strong here, driving towards the rocks, but Franky has her.

Their first kiss is lingering but still over too soon.

Franky pulls away and there’s a gleam in her sea-green eyes. “You didn’t make me promise to bring you back,” she says.

Bridget smiles. “I didn’t,” she says.

She kisses Franky again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my squad of beta readers, including [ Josclyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josclyn), [ Cherepashka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherepashka), and [ Krisslona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krisslona). I spent a good month fiddling around with this fic, and my betas were impressively patient with me.
> 
> The title for this fic, "Call the Ships to Port," is taken from a song by Covenant.
> 
> A fair bit of the inspiration that I was working from on this came from a Brittana fic I read many moons ago on FFN, [ The Curse of Sea and Land by Kairos27](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7166577/1/The-Curse-of-Sea-And-Land). It was a good fic. I think I took things in some very different directions because these characters needed a different kind of story, but I borrowed some themes and that fic's way of thinking about the nature of mermaids.


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